


Blade

by Miss_Murdered



Series: Peace and Atonement [1]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 01:15:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1409614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Murdered/pseuds/Miss_Murdered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wufei decided on a life of peace and solitude post-war and only Heero is allowed to intrude on it. One-shot. 1x5</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blade

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothin'
> 
> Pairings/Warnings: 1x5, m/m relationship, light angst, a teeny tiny hint of violence, un-beta'd but short so should've caught everything
> 
> A/N: 1x5 is a pairing I always wanted to try as it is a little tough for me to figure out the dynamic so here is my attempt. It is only a short piece but more of an experimentation on my part.

**Blade**

The house he'd had built was in the middle of a forest, a glass and wooden structure that was as far away from civilisation as he could get. He wanted peace. I never blamed him for that as just because I didn't - it didn't mean he had to continue in the life of bloodshed and violence because I did.

I parked the Jeep away from his home, down the dirt path and hopped out of it, grabbing my backpack and slinging it over my shoulders. I still was a little injured from an explosion on my last covert op and my limp was a little pronounced. Duo mocked me for it, telling me I was not Superman anymore and punching me on the shoulder. I had never considered myself Superman, the reason for my limp was a brief moment of distraction, a child in the blast zone and my instinct to protect. It maybe seemed that I'd been suicidal, thinking of the welfare of that child rather than considering my own personal safety but a slight amount of limp was something I could deal with. I had dealt with worse before.

The dirt path to his home was muddy from a rainfall and my boots stuck a little in the earth. It didn't matter, there was something soothing about the natural environment, the trees rustling, the sound of animals and I understood sometimes why he'd chosen this life of solitude, of meditation, of quiet contemplation. It did not stop me from wanting to persuade him to come back and each time I came to his home, I felt like I brought with me the smell of explosives, the sound of gunfire, and the threat of imminent danger into his quiet world.

I respected that he had given up the life and I shouldn't visit him, bringing with me the memories of war and mistakes, the past he had chosen to forget and yet I wanted to still come to him. Still try to persuade him to return and fight alongside me.

As I walked, the house appeared out of the trees, it seeming to be a part of its surroundings, the wood natural, the glass panels large but unimposing. It was sleek and modern but also somewhat traditional. It was like him, I thought, the Gundam pilot and the warrior.

It was his home and I was always the intruder in it as I would be now, walking towards the doors, the elaborate security system keeping those he did not want out. He had reason to be cautious as we all did. And while he had sought seclusion, meditation, isolation, he perhaps could still be found. As we all had been at some point. Whether to be hounded by eager reporters or to be shouted at by the families of the dead or worse – attempts on our lives made. It made sense for him to disappear. It was safer.

And I intruded into that safety, smirking a little at his system, newer, different and I knew it was his challenge to me and I appreciated his thought. Maybe he knew I'd not been challenged much recently, as after my injury I had been resigned to cases of little intrigue, forced to accompany Relena and become a symbol of the Preventers success rather than a man. A puppet on a string. Maybe it would be better to join him in peace. Yet I couldn't as soon I would be in the field again and there would be violence, the heady thrill of battle and the touch of a gun. I still wanted that. He didn't.

I brought out the small device I used on missions, plugging it in to the machine, working out the encryption on the security panel with my programme, my eyes scanning the data and within a few moments, the door opened, and I unplugged the cable, stepping quietly inside.

The house was shrouded in darkness despite the time of day. The trees that surrounded it cast shadows making the rooms gloomy. There were no lights on yet I saw the shadows caused by candles, smelt incense, jasmine filing my nostrils. I paused, taking off my boots, putting down my pack and then walked, slowly, cautiously into the house.

It was sparsely decorated, unchanged since my previous visit, and I saw the lines of book shelves, the books lining it, the canvases of abstract scenes of space and I continued through the main room, past the low coffee table, the simple white chair and couch, the large glass window showing the greenery surrounding the house.

I knew where he'd be, I saw the flicker of candle light in the dimness, reflecting off glass and white walls and walked in the lightest way possible, not as quiet as I would like due to my injury, as I walked towards the smell of jasmine.

The room was dominated by the large glass panel and I paused at the doorway, watching him, the curve of his back, the strength in his shoulders, his hair loose, relaxed like no one had seen him apart from me since the war. I knew Duo saw him – that he would consent to see him in bars and cafes in the nearby cities, and I never knew but I thought he probably kept in touch with Trowa, Quatre by default, but I was the only one that came here. Saw him like this.

The blade glinted in candle light, the swish of his sword making the flames waver, the air created by his elegant movements making them falter and I swallowed, my bare feet walking across the padded floor. It was special to see him like this – unrestrained, the sweat dripping down his back, the tattoo of the dragon spanning his arm, his hair sweeping across his face. He knew I was there, watching, my eyes tracing each elegant move, his body poetry in motion and I stepped further inside, waiting, waiting for his attack.

I grabbed a blade from the wall in anticipation, unsheathing it, the sound of metal sliding out deafening in the near silence of this room – his sanctuary, the only noises from his elegant footfalls, the exertion of his limbs. I felt the weight of the sword, feeling it in my fingertips, and it was not as beautiful as his blade, but it was a good weapon. A weapon I could use.

He stopped, his breathing slow and laboured and I raised my sword, readying myself for his attack. It was swift, a charge, the sword poised in front of him, I blocked, the clink of metal meeting metal heard above any other sounds. Our eyes met, his eyes so damn dark in the limited light and we backed off, swung again, clashing the blades together in some imitation of dance.

His skill outstripped mine as this was not about brute force, it was about elegance, about movement and he was far superior at that than me. Always had been. His speed, his precision, his bare chest, his fierce eyes were all so much better than my strength in this style of combat and with a few powerful slashes, his sword nicked my skin, a small thin line of red appearing on my t-shirt, my bicep cut. It didn't hurt, it only startled, and I countered, using force only to find him anticipating my move. My pride had been wounded by the cut and my reaction was to lose some of my measure, my control. The forceful thrust was parried, stopped, my sword leaving my grip, falling to the floor with a rattle. His feet then swung, his body in motion as I watched the blade slip from my grasp, my body dropping to my knees.

My fingers reached to where I bled, feeling the warmth of my own blood as his blade touched my throat, caressing it, not slicing my skin. I felt the sharpness and I looked up, meeting his eye.

"You win, Chang."

He lowered his weapon, offered me a hand which I took, letting me rise to my feet. The blood flowed from my wound, trailing down my arm, dripping from my fingers and he touched where he had cut, looking at me in concern.

"I hurt you."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement. And I shook my head. "No. It doesn't hurt."

He nodded, moved his bloody fingertips to my jaw and I instinctively leaned into his kiss – the fresh taste of peppermint tea on my tongue as our lips slid together. In his training room, in his secluded home, in his version of peace, Wufei kissed me as I bled and I wouldn't admit it but I needed the kiss of his blade as much as I needed that of his lips.

 


End file.
